


If You Can't Find Your Own Bodyguard Store-Bought Is Fine

by maximum_overboner



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, M/M, but he's front and center of hurricane nonsense, but it does get there, dark humour, junkrat is as mischievous as ever and roadhog wants nothing to do with it, love/hate relationship that's heavier than the hate than the love at the moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 12:54:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11013846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximum_overboner/pseuds/maximum_overboner
Summary: Junkrat is on a desperate search for a bodyguard to ferry him out of Australia. Unfortunately for Roadhog this happens to be him.





	If You Can't Find Your Own Bodyguard Store-Bought Is Fine

**Author's Note:**

> i know this premise has been done to death, but i just can't resist, i have too much fun writing them!
> 
> a prequel to this! 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/10873260

If someone didn’t come lumbering in, bleeding and screaming, it wasn’t a Friday. Roadhog’s important business of drinking until he couldn’t remember what year it was, then getting out of his tree on gas and passing out naked in a ditch somewhere, was being rudely interrupted by someone intent on squawking and bleeding all over the joint. Nobody paid any attention to him, he would probably bleed to death within the day, and if he didn’t they could all at least take bets on when he would. Those were always fun. Ended with someone being shot, naturally, but otherwise it was a good time. He could see him in his periphery, flapping like meat in a turbine, crying and shouting at anyone that gave him even the slightest hint of eye contact before spitting curses at them when they turned around. It appeared to be Roadhog’s time to shine. He pulled out his battered shotgun and placed it on the bar in front, taking another swig as he blocked out the noise.

“You! Yes, you! The fat one! How would you like a once in a lifetime opportunity?”

“No.”

The man, with the proportions of stretched toffee, flopped on the bar in front of him with his arm out, face pasted with blood and flecks of meat. He stank of old blood, sickly sweet, and his prosthetic arm had been blown to bits, leaving it nothing but rattling metal and dangling, sparking wire. His smile was as wide as he was desperate, a few teeth twisted in the wrong direction.

“Sure you do!”

Roadhog calmly hoisted his shotgun and brought it to the man’s neck. He squealed like a pig. Nobody around them cared.

“No.”

The man was still, hand in the air, throat pulsing against the barrel.

“Reward-- Reward for-- for not shooting--”

Roadhog cocked an eyebrow, not that it could be seen.

“-- You kill me and you get nothing, you hear me out--”

Roadhog dropped the gun, motioning with his hands.

“Go on.”

“What do you mean go on, do you want a bloody sales pitch?”

“Yes.”

The skinny man blustered in incredulous anger, but calmed himself long enough to continue as he really, really didn’t want to be shot.

“I…”

He shook Roadhog’s limp hand vigorously. Roadhog wiped it off on his overall.

“... Am Junkrat! You’ve heard of me, right?”

“No.”

“... What? I’m the genius of the Outback. Master of Metals. Baron of Bombs. Best arse in South Australia. And you are?”

“Get to the point.”

“I’ll call you Grumpy Bear, ‘cause you look like you’d be fun to hug.”

“... Roadhog.”

“Thank you, Roadhog. I’m being chased by a band of drug-addled, psychopathic lunatics, and…”

Junkrat looked at Roadhog and deduced that he was probably all of those things. He sat on the bar stool opposite, getting as comfy as his circumstances allowed.

“... As a highly esteemed appreciator of all those things I think I could really use you. They’re gonna kill me, and I can’t take them all on at once.”

Junkrat looked him up and down, as if looking at a statue.

“You look like you’ve seen a fight or seven hundred. You can take some strung-out miscreants, right?”

Roadhog scoffed, because of course he could, but he had a packed lifetime of drinking away his self-loathing and didn’t care for interruptions. Junkrat continued, slicking back the little hair he had.

“Think of it as… As preserving the sanctity of human life!”

Roadhog turned back around, uninterested, picking through his pouch to pay the barkeep.

“That not doing it for you? Too right, you’re a discerning customer. But you can’t resist money! Money, I love money and being alive, I’ll give you money!”

“How much?”

“A lot!”

Roadhog rolled his eyes, fobbing him off with a hand gesture.

“Not interested.”

“What about treasure! Loot! Riches!”

“Don’t lie. It’s embarrassing.”

The clock was very much against Junkrat. Engines wailed outside and he looked like he was going to start crying at any moment. Roadhog hoped the person coming to collect his head was walking in, so he could get back to drinking.

“Not a lie if I can prove it!”

“What’s the treasure?”

Junkrat beamed, manic, blood streaming from his aching gums and slathering his teeth.

“Friendship!”

“Fuck off.”

“Fine. Fine, let me die, I don’t care, let me die with all of my riches and incredible wealth!”

“I’ve had just about enough of your stinkin’ mouth--”

Junkrat motioned to the small pouch affixed to his side. He unzipped it, only an inch, and the money within it was close to splitting the bag at the seams. He was slow in his movements, not wanting to attract the attention of anyone else. Roadhog nearly fell off of his chair.

“This isn’t the treasure,” he whispered. “I sold about one percent of what I found. But it’s enough to get us out of Australia. Way, way out.”

He leaned in, intimately, his face an inch from Roadhog’s mask.

“You ‘n me are gonna get out of here.”

Couldn’t be done. The Australian Defence Force were instructed to shoot anyone coming in from the Outback on sight. Checkpoints, papers, radiation screenings, fences, guns. They’d never see a city. A little apocalyptic wasteland tucked in a prosperous nation.

“I know what you’re thinking. ‘Oh, we’ll be shot’. No we won’t. Not if we buy our way out. You can bribe anyone with enough money. I just need you to cover me ‘till we’re out. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.”

Roadhog thought of all he could do. He could leave forever. He could go back to New Zealand. Medicine. Comfort. Augmentation for his lungs. Anything that wasn’t the bleak, walled-in desert.

“I could live off that pouch for the rest of my life,” he said.

Junkrat giggled.

“Not ambitious, are ya?”

Roadhog grabbed him by the hair, bringing the gun back to his throat and digging it in, a sweaty finger braced to the trigger.

“Gimmie the pouch.”

“No!”

“Idiot.”

Junkrat’s cowed demeanor hardened into something disturbing.

“You should pay attention, my fine porcine pal. That stuff about being a genius? That wasn’t a boast. It was a warning.”

“Why aren’t you squealin’ this time?”

“‘Cause I know I’ve piqued your interest. ”

He smiled wryly.

“‘Baron of Bombs’ wasn’t a lie either.”

Roadhog looked at him in confusion, before it clicked.

“You wouldn’t,” he hissed.

“I bloody well would. I’m not letting myself get tortured to death. They already got two of my teeth before I ran. I’m prepared. You make one wrong move and this whole place pops.”

Roadhog looked around him for any obvious wires, and worrying packages. He didn’t seem to be bluffing, but he couldn’t find the bomb strapped to him.

“Where is it?”

Junkrat wiggled his eyebrows.

“Best. Arse. In South. Australia!”

He looked Roadhog in the mask, frantic and unblinking.

“You don’t want to do it; I leave you alone. You kill me; we both die. You guard me and you’re set for life. My terms or nothing. Take it or leave it.”

Junkrat bared his teeth in a rancorous smile, one of his eyes pasted shut with blood, well aware that even with a gun pressed to his gullet he was in control.

“Oh, but by all means, shoot me and launch yourself into the afterlife. On fire. In bits.”

He pushed forward until the barrel of Roadhog’s gun pressed painfully into his adam’s apple, hard enough to leave welts. Roadhog was, for the first time in years, afraid. There was something perilously wrong with this man, more than the warp living in the outback gave you. Sweat beaded his brow and his mouth went dry.

Junkrat continued, quite jovially.

“What is this, a sawn-off?”

Roadhog looked at him, baffled at his recklessness.

“Yeah.”

“You stick with me. I’ll build you a gun. A good one. If I push any harder I think this thing’ll fall apart.”

They remained as they were, frozen in their poses.

“Put the gun down, Roadie.”

He did. It hurt like a kick to the gut to be ordered around, but he did.

“Good boy.”

Roadhog contemplated shooting him anyway.

“Once we’re out of here I’ll split this cash. And anything we get. Consider it a little treat, for my new friend. But we have to gut the guys gunning for me, first.”

Roadhog considered himself amongst that group, but heard him out. His heart throbbed in his chest.

“I have a plan to kill ‘em all,” Junkrat whispered, “I’ve got a grenade launcher stashed nearby. But I have to account for wind trajectory, angles, boring stuff. Bombs are fun, but they’re a bastard to aim, especially if something is moving. I’m going to need a distraction; a bear trap, three batteries, a head of lettuce and five pigeons.”

“Five?”

“No more, no less.”

“Hm. I got a plan.”

“I doubt you do; but go on.”

The first of the men entered the bar. In a smooth motion Roadhog launched the hook at the side of his belt, whipping the chain out and catching him in the mouth, snapping the man’s jaw with a wet crunch and a gurgle. He heaved on the chain, dragging him in and shooting him at point blank range, turning his face into a vague series of chunks and hair that splattered against the floor, his body dropping with it. He took a bill from Junkrat’s pouch and left it on the counter as a tip, the barman giving him a thankful nod. Gore pasted his mask. He faced Junkrat.

“Got ‘im,” was all he said.

Junkrat looked very impressed. He ducked down to examine the unfortunate victim, peering at the mulch that was once his face. He stole his water canteen.

“Oh, I don’t think this bloke was chasing me. Looks like a random. The rest must be outside, lookin’.”

Roadhog shrugged and scratched an itch on his shoulder.

“Oh. Whoops.”

“Your casual indifference to suffering is atrocious.”

Junkrat pulled the pin of a homemade grenade with his teeth, ready to sling it out of the door.

“We’re gonna be besties.”


End file.
